


c'mon puppy, bark

by warmheartseek



Category: The Lighthouse (2019)
Genre: Consensual Violence, M/M, Mild Puppy Play, No Aftercare, Non-Sexual Submission, Or Is It?, Punishment, Thomas Wake Is A Terrible Dom, Unhealthy Relationships, improper use of a belt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-21 04:02:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21293312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/warmheartseek/pseuds/warmheartseek
Summary: Winslow has a bark worse than his bite and Thomas decides one dog needs to be reminded who is master of the house.
Relationships: Ephraim Winslow/Thomas Wake
Comments: 5
Kudos: 91





	c'mon puppy, bark

Winslow hardly heard Thomas over the howling storm outside, the old man was drunk and blathering, but then again Winslow was much of the same. He had started everything by complaining about the food, and they’d been having such a nice time until then. Least, they’d had as much a nice time as two stranded, half-mad men could have in the middle of the ocean on nothing more than an over sized rock with a few planks of wood hovering over their heads. Thomas was absolutely righteous, streaming moonlight from the bedroom window illuminated his face in a way that sent a shiver of shock and awe up Winslow’s spine. He was terrified at the same time he was enthralled, despite the reality that Thomas was cursing Winslow’s name to Hell and wishing him lost to the sea. 

_ “Not even a scrap of ye’ soul remain--” _

Winslow backed himself further against the nook he’d scrambled into though there was nowhere left to hide. His feet skirted the floorboard, his hands desperately clutching the empty tin cup at his side. Breath came ragged and fast as he watched Thomas’ lament with stupefied fascination. Ragged, dirty old man that he was, there was a spark in Thomas that drew Winslow in like the light of the tower they kept watch over. 

“Fine, have it your way. I like your cooking.”

Winslow had finally managed to croak out after swallowing his tongue back into his throat. 

“Yer just tryin’ ta butter me up now, ye right bastard.”

Thomas swiped at the air in front of him, shrugging Winslow’s relenting comment with the gesture. Winslow tried to shimmy himself up the wall but got hardly an inch or two before he slipped back down. 

“And you--you’re nothin’ but a dirty, drunk n’old man,” his words mimicked the waves that sloshed against the island’s shoreline. 

“Oh, you mean to tell me yer some kind of patron saint now, are ye? Not layin’ in a puddle o’ yer own piss like some kind of mangy dog?” 

Winslow stumbled and scrambled to his full height, the one defense he had left against Thomas. His finger was pointed squarely at the old captain’s nose. 

“Now what’d I say ‘bout callin’ me a dog, you rotten, lying old fool.” 

Winslow thought he really might start snarling with the effort it took his mouth to string two words together through his drunken stupor. But if Thomas wanted a dog then by God, Winslow would give the man what he wanted because after all, good seconds did as they were told. 

Thomas stood his ground, chin jutted and wild eyes locked on Winslow’s. 

“Ye ain’t given me nuthin’ else that’d proven ye ain’t one, laddie.” 

Winslow’s breath was heaving now, he could feel the straps of his suspenders stretch with the rapid rise and fall of his chest. He thought he might have sounded like a mad bull about to charge with how loud he was huffing anger through his nose. A white knuckled grip sat tight at Winslow’s sides as he silently weighed his options, between knocking out the old man’s teeth or landing a devastating blow to his ribcage. It wasn’t a matter of which one he so desperately wanted over the other, merely an impossible choice of which bones he wished to hear crunch underneath his fists first. 

“Silent as the grave, are ye? I shoulda known you were a man ain’t worth his salt.” 

Thomas turned to hobble out, though it was a mystery as to where he might be going seeing as they both occupied the only loosely named comfort in the house. But Winslow wasn't finished with the captain just yet. 

“You want a dog?” 

Winslow spoke even and low, surprising himself with the level of control but still unable to keep his words from slurring. He dropped to his knees, head hung before he willed it back to look at Thomas. 

“Then you got one, Tom.” 

Thomas narrowed his eyes to slits, scanning the sight before him, “Yer mad, Winslow.” 

Winslow barked a humorless laugh, “And you ain’t?” 

He dropped himself to all fours and stared back up at the old captain, sat back the way a real dog might sit on its haunches while it awaited orders. And Winslow was prepared to wait as long as it took. 

“Quit yer playin’ now, on yer’ feet boy.” 

Winslow stayed where he was. 

“I says, on yer’ feet!”

Thomas stomped the foot of his good leg but Winslow wouldn’t budge. He crawled closer to Thomas. 

“Dogs are s’pposed to obey their masters, ain’t that right, sir?” 

“And ungrateful little twerps like ye’ are supposed ta obey their keepers,” Thomas seethed. 

Winslow felt a blinding hatred crawl up his neck, mixed with something he couldn’t place when he saw the way Thomas stood over him, his skeletal frame strangely imposing in the moonlight. That awe was still there where it lingered and nipped at Winslow’s heels. He wanted to hate Thomas completely, wanted his thoughts of bashing the old man’s skull against the nearest sharp rock to consume him so he could just do the goddamn thing already. But there he sat on his knees, despite all appearances too ready and willing to take any orders he was given. 

“What’s your little book say ‘bout dogs that disobey, huh?” 

Thomas’ eyes flared, his hand shot out to take a painful grip on Winslow’s hair, blunt and dirty nails digging painfully into his weather whipped scalp so raw from salty wind that it stung to lay his head down at night. Winslow grunted and bared his teeth, pushing up into the grip to alleviate even the smallest amount of pressure that he could manage. Each breath he took in was sharp and deep, dragging the stench of the room into his nose to a place he knew he’d never forget it. 

“Dunno ‘bout no damned book, but I says dogs that misbehave earn themselves a right good thrashin' ta set 'em straight.” 

A rush of real fear ran through Winslow’s heart but he still couldn’t bring himself to break out of Thomas’ hold though he knew it wouldn’t take much since the old man spent his days watching some blasted light while Winslow shoveled mountains of heavy coal and trekked across the muddy island with a barrow full of shit every morning. Besides that, he’d killed a gull with his bare hands, so snapping the neck of some crazy lighthouse keeper would be like crushing a twig under his boot, and Winslow had a feeling both of them knew that. 

Winslow let himself be shoved against the closest bed, Thomas’ grip on his hair keeping his face pressed into the mat that covered rusted, metal springs. He kept his hands and knees flat on the floor, because a good dog always goes where his master leads. And even when he heard the clinking of what he knew was a belt being pulled from the closet, Winslow kept still. 

Thomas doubled the accessory and snapped the leather together for good measure. 

“Don’t kill yourself tryna’ get a good shot in you stinking drunk, that’ll be my job,” Winslow huffed a laugh against the sheet beneath his cheek. 

Thomas landed a harsh blow to Winslow’s backside, one that made him writhe where he kneeled. His shout echoed through the quiet room, the storm outside being courteous enough to quell itself for a moment so Winslow’s cry might be heard. 

“Don’t recall dogs bein’ able to talk, boy,” Thomas grunted next to Winslow’s ear. 

Winslow bit his tongue hard enough to taste blood, he wanted to scream or curse Thomas and his worthless name but his desire to please outweighed everything ugly that welled up inside of him like a storm more perfect than the one churning just outside their walls. 

Another blow landed squarely against Winslow’s back, making him arch so his stomach pressed against the cot through his thin undershirt. 

“You gonna cry, dog? Big, blubberin’ tears like you done before? Oh, you do look real pretty when you cry fer’ me, boy.” 

Winslow bit into the mat beneath him and barked a rough noise in the back of his throat. He turned to look over his shoulder, faced with the patronizing, self satisfied smirk of his keeper. He thought about what Thomas might look like spitting each of those rotten teeth out of his bloodied mouth one by one and smiled around the fabric clenched tight between his jaw. He squared his shoulders and lined his knees up so they matched the width of where his hands pressed into the floorboards, braced to take another hit. This time the leather met flesh between his shoulder blades and he yelped high and loud, taken aback by the delicious burn and the maelstrom of feelings that swirled in his head. 

In that moment Winslow felt greedy and wanting, pleading in his head for more, more,  _ more _ of that sinful searing pain that flared across his back. His wicked prayers were answered when the next blow brought a steady stream of identical attentions after it, one by one by one.

Once the onslaught let up, Winslow slumped against the cot, head sliding off and onto the floor where the rest of his body collapsed beneath him. He was buzzing with the ghost of the belt’s bite across his back, though none of the blows had been ruthless enough to draw blood. But that was alright, all in due time, and they had nothing but time being stranded the way they were. 

Winslow wiped the spit from the corner of his mouth and looked up at Thomas, the belt having been discarded from his hand now. The old captain was breathing heavy, his jaw set in a stern expression though a smile played at his lips. He extended a hand down to Winslow’s chin and took it between his finger and thumb. 

Winslow was panting each strained word, “Did I do good, cap'n ?” 

Thomas looked amused. 

“Took yer’ punishment like a real well trained mutt, you did. Might even let ye’ sleep at me feet tonight.” 

Winslow dragged himself to his knees and reflected the twisted smile Thomas gave him, one somehow filled with both spite and mutual desire. 

“God as my witness I’ll sink my teeth inta’ your good leg while you sleep n’ tear it to shreds you righteous, lazy, lyin’, no good son of a bitch.” 

Thomas moved his hand to grab Winslow’s face in a tighter hold, inspecting the wild smile on his young second’s face. 

“I’ll like to see ye’ try, laddie.” 


End file.
